Recruitment events were an odd sort of pleasure to attend. Vangelis had never really stopped to think upon the sensation before, but pleasurable it was. It was the combination of a field in which Vangelis possessed high levels of expertise, combined with the fresh and relaxing environment of a battlefield with no war.

Or at least... relaxing for him. For the would-be soldiers, the meadow was not a place of fun or even mild difficulty. It was hard work. Without question.

But for Vangelis, moving around the moore to assess the young and old alike was an interesting experience that allowed him to breathe easily and think more with his gut than his tactical mind.

For a soldier, it was perhaps bizarre to admit that Vangelis took no pleasure in war. He didn't even particularly think of it as glorious. Victorious or no. Vangelis recalled one night with his father, speaking in his tent upon the northern fields of blood and carnage and admitting that he didn't enjoy it. That he took no satisfaction in conquering his enemies and slaying his aggressors.

His father had turned to him with that curious and proud glint in his eye and told him.... 'Good. That's how it's supposed to be.'

The king had gone on to explain that a man who fought because he wished to do harm was no soldier. He was a mercenary. A man who fought because he valued human life and the defense of his realm... that was the man to make a difference to his kingdom. But, in doing so... he had to become a tool willing to murder, slay and exact violence upon others. All so that he could protect human life.

It was a bizarre life lesson that Vangelis had never been able to reassure himself actually made sense. It was a paradoxical concept that he had been forced to live his life by, surrendering the more sensitive and sentimental sides of his nature along the way. He fought based solely on theory now. On the principle of it. On the promise that he was doing what was right.

Alongside that principle, on the battlefield, was a constant tension of death. The lingering scent of it, the whisper of it on the back of his neck. The promise that he would one day be a member of those lying on the broken ground after war had been waged. He could never take a moment of appreciation or satisfaction in the way he had honed his crafts in weaponry and warfare to near enough perfection. There was no pride or self-joy to be had.

Until he came to events such as these. Where Vangelis knew himself to be the finest trained man upon the field. Where he was comfortable in his surroundings and could witness the difficulty with which new soldiers wrestled over moves he now completed with ease. It wasn't a smugness that he felt warm in his chest. But a sense of accomplishment. That he had once been where these boys and men now stood. And now he was wearing the cloak of a General.

And the recruitment event of Nethisa was the first chance in a long while that he had had to appreciate that progression without the distracting environment of blood and malice.

Distracted from his reverie, Vangelis glanced up as he passed one of the tables laid out under a cloth and elevated awning. Men were hovering around the table, waiting for their use of the stylus so that they might sign a small clay tile. The contract of employment with the Colchian militia. As he approached, all of them were startled to attention, their heels drawn together and their backs suddenly straight. Those more acquainted with protocol placed a closed fist to their chest. A young boy who knew not what to do, took a moment to copy his elders.

Dressed as was appropriate for a man of his station in cream chiton and a himation of gold and crimson, Vangelis wasn't surprised to find he attracted attention.

"Your Royal Highness," one of the scribes greeted from behind the table, fearing he might be the only official nearby and therefore required to speak on behalf of the group. "Your presence emboldens us today."

Vangelis wasn't listening. He was focused on one of the men in the group. Older. Much older. He stood with a sloop to his shoulders and hair of grey. His eyes were surrounded by wrinkles but his stare was clear enough. He wore at his hip a sword with a particular binding. An aged piece of embroidered silk that had been given at a particular battlefield many, many years ago.

"You served with my father," Vangelis accused without introduction or greeting. The older man seemed surprised but his former military training came to his rescue and he was quickly bowing formally.

'Yes, General,' he confirmed. His choice of Vangelis' titles was another giveaway of his service record. 'Thirty-seven years I served with His Majesty.'

"And yet you return to the sword now?" Vangelis asked.

'Yes, General.'

The man turned ruddy in the cheek and Vangelis could guess why. All soldiers were provided a small coin for the years after their service if they had fought for the nation long enough. For whatever reason, the man's family required more of it to survive and he had been called to the front lines again. With an aged back and blurred vision no doubt.

"You have sons?" Vangelis asked the man, a scowl upon his face.

'No, sire. I was blessed with only daughters. Four of them.' So no one to take his place in such work but enough mouths to feed to pull money tight. At least until they were married. Or perhaps they already were, judging from the man's age and he was supporting them and their offspring along the way.

Glancing at the other men in the group, the black frown upon Vangelis' face had them scurrying in all directions. He turned to the older gentleman, however, before he too could run.

"Your name," Vangelis ordered.

'Murak of Nethisa, sire.'

"Are you good with horses, Murak of Nethisa?"

The soldier was obviously thrown by the question. He glanced around himself, looking like he might need someone to pinch him, or in some other way show that he wasn't dreaming. He was indeed having a one-on-one discussion with the prince of the realm.

'Aye, sir. I work with them well enough.'

Vangelis nodded as if this was all he needed to hear and then moved around the old soldier. He took up the small tablet that bore the scratched markings of 'Murak of Nethisa' in the clear script of the scribe and then a deep cross marked beneath in the form of a signature. The clay was still pliable, not yet baked, and Vangelis simply crushed it between his palms.

Murak of Nethisa made a strangling sort of noise before getting his emotions back under rein.

'My lord?' he asked, uncertain.

"You have served enough Murak of Nethisa." Vangelis insisted. "Report to the Chaossis barracks three days hence. I have need of a stablemaster there. The pay will be equal to any soldier salary."

And then he left. Not waiting for Murak to do more than sputter a thank you. The man would have to uproot his life, leave his home and perhaps move his kin hundreds of miles. But he would have had to do that anyway if he was to serve in a militia that never remained still. At least this way, a man who had served for nearly four decades in the most grueling career on earth could find some peace in his ailing days. The idea of a man surviving so long on Ares' dancefloor only to have to return to it and die very quickly because of old age... all for the sake of a need for coin...

His father had been right all those years ago. It was important why you were fighting.

As Vangelis moved to inspect one of the larger groups - this time of young boys who had clearly never held a sword in their life, he was passed by a long train of men being led from the entrance of the recruitment fields to a valid area they could be set to work in.

There must have been some sort of scuffle, some shoving in the group, because one moment Vangelis was watching the children listen to Lieutenant Lysander and the next, a passing recruit was colliding into him. A man who had been shoved from his group by another and had the unhappy coincidence of nearly knocking the Colchian crown prince off his feet.